A Night of Terror
by Buizel Rubeda
Summary: Spyro, Cynder, and Sparx have just entered the Valley of Avalar, and Cynder spends the night contemplating the horror of the Dark Master.


"_**IN PĀCE REQUIĒSCAM**_**"**

(This is a simple one-shot about Cynder's mental and emotional state during _Dawn of the Dragon_, specifically in the Enchanted Forest. It is designed to complement the first passages of "Chapter 7" of my story, _Thunderclap_. Sorry about the Latin title, but it adds a desirable touch of poetry, and, again, this one-shot is designed to be complementary — a characterization element, as it were. Feel free to review despite that…)

Cynder watched as the rays of the setting sun darted over the vivid landscape of the Enchanted Forest, stretched out below them. It was the first day since they had arrived in the Valley of Avalar, and she was alone with Spyro and Sparx, the latter of whom had already collapsed into stertorous slumber in the corner of the cave.

There was something haunting about these woods: something dark, mysterious, and stirring; something that churned the innermost corners of her heart, like some long-lost desire; something that resonated with every fiber of her being — her very soul cried out in a mixture of lamentation and exhilaration.

She felt that she had come home…and found that her home had been ravaged. She felt that she had been robbed, that something precious to her had been replaced by an imitation — but she could not remember what it was…she could not remember anything.

Why was this place familiar? Had she lived here? Was she _born_ here?

_Impossible_, Cynder thought bitterly. _I was born with Malefor_…

But was _that_ true? Had she really been born with Malefor? She had little memory of what had happened prior to waking up to Spyro's wide, concerned, amethyst eyes after the events of Convexity. Was it possible…was it possible that this entire world – this nostalgic, synesthetic, horrific world – was naught but an illusion? Was it a dream — a nightmare? Could she close her eyes and awaken to the realization that none of it – not the pain, the terror, the death, the darkness, the _fear_ – was _real_?

"Cynder?" Cynder shook her head, the quiet voice shattering her hypnotic reverie; she felt herself jolted back to reality – the _real_ reality, which she had come so close to dismissing as illusory – and blinked several times, turning her head as she did so:

Spyro stood a few feet away, gazing at her concernedly, head cocked slightly to one side. His amethyst eyes were glittering ethereally in the sun's dying light.

"Are you all right?" he asked her gently, "You look sick."

"Yeah," she said forcedly, turning away, hoping he wouldn't spot that sinister, creeping fear in her face, "Yeah…fine." She could sense Spyro's unconvinced gaze boring into her, but she remained facing the adumbrated forest until she heard him turn and walk away.

She glanced furtively over her shoulder and saw that he had curled up nearer to Sparx, staring blankly at the ground. After a moment, he closed his eyes.

"If you're sure you feel all right…good night, Cynder."

"Good night…Spyro." Cynder replied; she kept her voice low, fearing that otherwise it would crack. She waited, listening to the sound of Spyro's breathing: It dropped from its normal, steady pace to a slow, rhythmic tide.

He was asleep.

Cynder sighed and walked over to him, lying down a few feet away from his crooked form — though she thought that sleep was a hopeless prospect: She was too uneasy.

The sun's last few rays faded as the night evicted the day; shadows bathed the land, seeping into the cave like the tide of some foul, morbid ocean. The light ebbed, replaced by darkness — but not the cool, vacuous darkness of safety: the oppressive, susurrating darkness of…what?

_What is this place?_ Cynder wondered. _What is this place?_ The darkness was almost utterly complete: The stars and half-moon barely penetrated its dense folds with their azure rays; the entire Earth was draped in shadow, the cave became a pit of unfathomable blackness.

Cynder felt her heartbeat start to accelerate. This was the first full night that they had spent outside since the Dark Master had returned to power (she didn't count the night that they had spent unconscious after escaping the catacombs): It was an eerie feeling, a horrible, nerve-wracking, devitalizing feeling, as though the darkness around her were tracing her with its spidery fingers, seeking some orifice through which to pluck her soul straight from her body.

She instinctively glanced around, fearful that something was watching her. Was it Malefor? He had certainly done enough watching her over the years — she worried that he still claimed some foothold in the back of her mind. Was there some door to her thoughts – to her self – that she had left ajar and through which the Dark Master might recapture her?

_No!_ she told herself fiercely, though her ferocity came from terror, not from defiance. _I _can't_ go back to that — not now, not after —_

She glanced at Spyro: He slept totally unperturbed, his breath coming in long, slow, deep gusts. She closed her eyes and sighed quietly, trying to shoo away her thoughts and focus on nothing more than that steadfast, pendulous sound. It was soothing: a refuge from the heart-pounding terror that she felt sure lay just outside the cave —

_Relax, Cynder…relax…_ She closed her eyes, and that calmed her slightly. It was odd, she thought briefly, how replacing the sinister, almost utter darkness around her with the total darkness behind her eyelids was comforting to her. It was like a child's game, almost: If she closed her eyes and could not see the evil around her, then maybe – just maybe – it wasn't really there…

_That's foolish_, she chided herself…but she kept her eyes closed. It helped her to empty her mind: Though that dreadful feeling of being watched remained unabated, she nonetheless found it easier to focus on the rhythmic sound of Spyro's breathing – really the only sound in the night, the air outside being deathly still – without her sight confounding her hearing.

Yet the fear remained: Though her heart slowed to a more moderate rate, and though her breaths were coming slow and deep, and though her eyes were closed, her body arranged in a soporific posture, she could not shake the icy feeling pulsing through her with each passing second.

She wasn't entirely sure what it was that she feared. Terror was often amorphous and inscrutable. Certainly there was the fear that Malefor's seemingly innumerable minions would find them slumbering in this cave, but that was not too grave a threat — unless of course _Malefor_ showed up.

She supposed that she did fear that: Without a doubt she was not looking forward to facing him, although she knew, in the deepest recesses of her mind, that she would have to eventually — or, at least, Spyro would.

That was it: She was afraid for Spyro.

Cynder marveled at his unflappability: He seemed utterly untouched by the fear that was threatening to suffocate her. If anything, that merely intensified her terror: After all, it was _he_ who was Malefor's target, not she, Cynder; so if anyone had cause to fear for his life, it would be him.

Since Spyro was unfazed, Cynder was afraid _for_ him. He was utterly faultless, she was totally to blame for the Dark Master's rising. It was she who should have to face him…not Spyro.

Her worst nightmare – the one that had haunted her sleep for the past months (_years_, she reminded herself) – was that somehow, in some ineluctable, fateful way, her actions would result in Spyro's death. Her own death did not really concern her, except in that irrelevant instinctual way; it was Spyro's life for which she feared.

Spyro was the one threat, the one thing that could possibly end the Dark Master's reign; he would be a high priority to Malefor, and Cynder knew all too well – from her own experience – that Malefor would stop at nothing – _nothing_ – to defeat the purple dragon who dozed only a few feet from her.

At that thought, her eyes flew wide open, and she half rose from her recumbent posture: nothing. There was nothing in the cave but they three: she, Spyro, and Sparx, who had, thankfully, stopped snoring a good while ago.

Cynder lay back down, inching a little closer to Spyro; his breathing was totally undisturbed, and there was no hint of danger, so she relaxed a little.

Only a little: She spent what felt like the next hour staring, primed by terror to spring at even the slightest intrusion. After that period of heart-pounding vigil, she sank into an exhausted sort of torpor.

_I can't do this_, she moaned to herself. Fear was sapping of every ounce of strength and vitality. She gazed out of petrified eyes at a world fraught, she thought, with latent perils which she was powerless to avert and incapable of ignoring.

She envied Spyro and the ease with which he seemed to shrug off the pressures of his destiny and the dangers that lurked all about them. She envied his equanimity, the peace that surrounded him.

Peace — _that_ was what she needed. There was no peace. Malefor had ravaged the peace, torn it to shreds and dissipated the tatters throughout the world, the universe…maybe beyond.

Peace — ha! That was laughable: With Malefor there could be no peace. He was the antithesis of peace, he was fear incarnate. He was her plague, her scourge. He was darkness made visible, night made solid, evil in the flesh. Peace vanished into the depths of his flagitiousness like fire extinguished in a vacuum.

Peace…peace… Spyro alone seemed to possess any of that precious staple, that indispensable fire that burned away the chill of fear and that illuminated the blackness of evil. Even now, as she watched him slumber, she could see that peace all about him, as though he were enveloped in white flame.

"Peace," Cynder whispered plaintively, her voice melding with the rhythm of Spyro's serene breathing. "Give me peace…"

A few minutes later, Cynder fell asleep to that tranquil nocturne.

Peace.


End file.
